


Some Choices Come in Crimson

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dubious Consent, F/M, Kidnapping, King's Landing is a dump, Manipulation, Older Man/Younger Woman, Sexual Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-08-29 10:50:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8486518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After Tragedy strikes at Sansa Stark's 18th birthday, she finds herself stumbling into Petyr Baelish's hands. As Sansa soon learns, some choices leave darker marks than others, and to a man like Petyr, those choices come in red.





	1. One

The stereo switched off with a soft _click_ , leaving Petyr alone in the car save for the sounds of his own breathing. He glanced out the front window—nothing—then down to his wrist.

            _Two minutes past twelve. She’s late._ Petyr fought the urge to grind his teeth, instead pinching the stereo’s switch between his thumb and forefinger, flicking it on and off. Pieces of some god-awful pop song burst and faded, gnawing at the growing unease in his stomach.

            _Five minutes past twelve. Maybe something went wrong…_ But no, that was ridiculous. Anxiety was the worst enemy to meticulous planning, and Petyr never said a word before thinking it through. Everything would proceed tonight as intended. It had to.

            Something in the rear view mirror caught his eye, and Petyr’s gaze snapped to his wrist.

            _Six minutes._ He’d deal with that later. Now his attention returned to the figure emerging from where the road crested atop a hill, her red hair unmistakable despite only the moon lighting the way towards his parked Mercedes. Long, pale legs stumbled as she hurried towards him, and her strangled cries for help slipped in through his cracked window.

            “Help!” the girl called out, voice breaking at the end. “Somebody! Please, hel—”

            Petyr watched as her eyes grew wide at the sight of his car, half-hidden in shadow by the overgrown roadside. Only when she broke into a run did Petyr jump out of the car, a look of confusion painted carefully on his face.

            “What happened? Are you all right?”

            The girl froze by his rear tire, uneasiness flickering in her clear blue eyes. “I—I need a ride,” she stammered, suddenly aware of her state in Petyr’s presence. She quickly tugged her skirt down—he could now see the frayed, white silk where it had been torn. When his gaze traveled upward, he took in the blood splattered across her skin, from the tops of her breasts to her cheek.

            “A ride?” Petyr’s brows knotted in worry. “You look hurt, maybe I should just call the police.” He slid a hand into his pocket, and she let out a cry of protest.

            “Wait!”

            His hand drew away.

            “You can’t. Please, please just give me a ride into the city.” Desperation fell heavily behind her words, though no tears welled in those pretty blue eyes. He imagined those would come later, once reality set in.

            “Fine…fine,” Petyr muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t like it, but hop in.”

            With a mutter of thanks, the girl slipped into the passenger seat. Tremoring hands tried to buckle herself in, but the metal kept slipping against the hard plastic.

            “Here,” Petyr murmured, prying off her clammy fingers and doing it himself. He gave her a quick smile, a short shake of the head. “If I didn’t know better, sweetling, I’d say you’ve gotten yourself into quite a bit of trouble.”

            The girl gave no answer as Petyr started the engine. From the corner of his eye, he could see her own eyes closed, her chest rising rapidly as she tried to remain calm.

            “What’s your name?” he asked as the car pulled back onto the empty road.

            She paused for a moment, then said quietly, “Jeyne.”

            Petyr bit back a smirk. “Jeyne,” he mused, rolling the name on his tongue. _Too plain for a girl like her…we’ll have to think of something else._ “What happened tonight, Jeyne?” he pressed again. The trees were growing denser, stretching out in a dark canopy above the road. Petyr flicked on the high beams, and cool, blue light flooded the path.

            She released a shaky breath. “They’re gone. All of them.” A sob cracked through her composure, and the girl clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her cries.

            “All of them?” Petyr glanced over to see her nod, tangled hair falling forward to hide her face. The engine roared as they climbed a hill.

            “Father, Robb, Mother. No, no, no…” As her words turned to great, wracking sobs, Petyr’s jaw clenched at the last name.

            _Cat._ He knew it was a possibility for her to have been there tonight, but still the name sent a twinge of guilt to his gut. _My sweet Cat. Dead._ A cold feeling settled deep in his stomach. His knuckles grew white against the leather steering wheel.

            “And the others?” he asked gently.

            “O—others?” she hiccupped. “Bran and Rickon are away at that school, and Arya…oh, Gods, _Arya._ She—she was at a friend’s—we have to go back!” Her hand closed around his wrist, and Petyr glanced over to see pleading, tear-filled eyes.

            He shook her off, eyes focused back on the road. “What about Jon?” he asked, ignoring her plea.

            “Jon? Jon’s at…” Suddenly her voice fell away, replaced by a sharp intake of breath. _Ah,_ Petyr thought smugly. _The realization sinks in._ Petyr was impressed—he’d expected her to take much longer.

            “Yes?”

            Her eyes took in the deep wood racing past. “Where are you taking me?”

            Petyr chuckled. “Away. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

            “To the city—I need to go to the city.” Her breathing began to quicken, her tears forgotten. Out of the corner of his eye, Petyr saw her hand inch for the door.

            He locked it with a soft _click._ “Tsk, tsk, sweetling. You know better than that. Now let’s try again. Where’s Jon?”

            She tried the door anyway, yanking furiously at the handle with growing panic. Petyr sighed, stamping on the breaks. The car skidded to a halt, both of them slamming backwards in their seats. Still, she pulled desperately at the handle, frantic, muttered words spilling from her lips.

            “Sansa.”

            Her hands froze. A tremor traveled up her spine. “Who are you?” she breathed out.

            “You don’t remember, sweetling? We’ve met before, but I must say that you looked quite different then. Younger…still innocent.”

            Slowly, she released the handle and turned to face him. Wide, fearful eyes scanned his face. “My twelfth birthday,” she whispered, horrified. “You were there—I saw you talking to Father…”

            He laughed. “Arguing, more like.” Petyr’s eyes settled on her throat, and he smirked. “I see he let you keep my present, though.” Leaning over, Petyr reached out. Sansa tried to back away, head knocking against the window. Slowly, his fingers closed around the silver pendent hung against her neck. The cool direwolf was smooth against his skin. She shivered as his touch traveled lower to her collar, and a soft whimper escaped.

            “Please, please don’t—”

            His hand lifted, and he laughed again. “You Tully girls never could resist a direwolf, could you?” Petyr settled back into his seat, observing her carefully.

            “I know who you are, sweetling. And I know what you did tonight.”

            “I swear, I had nothing to do with—”

            He cut her off with a raised hand. “You have two options, Sansa. One,” he held up a finger and pointed to the door, “I unlock this door and drive away. Every cop in King’s Landing will take you back to the Lannister’s in a heartbeat, and everyone else will take you for themselves. I daresay you won’t last a week. Two,” he held up a second finger, gesturing to her seat belt, “You put that back on, and come with me. It’s your choice, sweetling. I recommend you make the right one.”

            Achingly slow, her seat belt _clicked_ back into place.


	2. Two

            She sat in silence, watching the man walk around the front of the car. When the door swung open, Sansa swallowed thickly, willing herself not to cry. He held out a hand. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

            The man sighed. “We can do this the hard way or the easy way.”

            Sansa crossed her arms across her chest. “I told you, I’m not—”

            Suddenly the man reached in, grabbing her wrists. Sansa fought, trying to kick out, but she had lost her heels during the party, and her bare feet did little against him. Grunting, the man yanked her from the seat, ignoring her screams for help.

            “I did warn you,” he said gruffly, pushing her into the car, her back flush against his chest. Strong arms wrapped around her waist. He kicked the door shut with his foot. “Now _stop struggling_ , and I won’t hurt you. Can you do that?”

            “I’ll give you money, anything, please just let me go,” Sansa pleaded, trying to squirm away from his iron grip. The car’s cold metal bit painfully into her bare thighs.

            He chuckled, hot breath washing over her neck. “Oh, sweetling. You think it’s money I want? Take a look.” Before she could respond, he spun her around. Before her loomed a huge house, nestled into an ancient-looking wood of endless, twisted trees. From the ground rose dark stone walls, and to Sansa’s astonishment, they appeared to melt, like molten lead in some places. _A trick of the light_ , she couldn’t help but think as her eyes scanned what she could only describe as a fortress. The wind picked up, and a howl whistled past. A shiver went up her spine. The direwolf at her throat grew cold against her goose-pimpled skin.

            “Do you see?”

            Sansa forced herself to nod.

            She could almost _feel_ the man smirk against her hair. “Now will you come quietly, or do I have to carry you?”

            Another nod.

            “Good. Now follow me.” And without looking back, the man began making his way up the drive towards a huge, iron-wrought door.

            Sansa stood there, frozen. Her gaze wandered around, and fear settled in her stomach. Everywhere she looked was either the house or the wood, with not another car or house in sight. _I can’t stay, I can’t leave…_ The reality of her situation began to sink in. She was eighteen years old, wearing nothing but a slip of crimson-stained silk. She was lost and alone and would have Goldcloaks on her heels by morning and nothing but a strange man who very well might kill her tonight waiting for her by a house that scared her just as much as its owner. But he was her only choice.

           

* * *

 

            Petyr’s eyes followed as the girl finally crossed through the door. Under the bright light of the entryway, he could finally see that she was in worse shape than he initially realized. Her dress truly was nothing more than a scrap of silk, and dried blood clung to the fabric, flaking off onto his polished cement floor. He groaned inwardly. _This will be messier than I planned. Quite literally._

            “What do you think?” he asked, shutting and locking the heavy door. Sansa turned, eyes trained on his hand as he slipped the key into his trousers’ pocket.

            “It’s…not what I was expecting.”

            He chuckled, watching her gaze shift around the hall. “So _not_ the gothic monstrosity you were expecting?”

            “Not at all,” she breathed out. The girl’s hand trailed the edge of a glass table, skimming over the geometric sculpture atop it.

            “I take it you’re to be an art student.”

            She nodded, only half-listening as she moved slowly towards the parlor. “Yes, but now—” She whipped back around. “How did you know that?” Her eyes darted from his face to the door, exploration of the house suddenly forgotten. “Tell me who you are.”

            _Ah, so there is some fierceness in this one._ It would make things interesting, at least. Petyr set his face into a careful smile. “We can discuss everything in the morning, sweetling.” His eyes flicked to her body. “But first we need to get you cleaned up.” Petyr brushed past her, gesturing for her to follow.

            Reluctant footsteps followed, bare feet slapping the hard floor. He led her towards the right-wing stairs, and they climbed up to the second floor. Down a long hall they walked, passing pieces he knew the girl was just dying to stop at and study. “Just a bit further,” he muttered as they turned a sharp right.

            Finally, he came to a halt, and Petyr pushed open a door. They stepped inside.

            “Is this where you’re keeping me?” Sansa asked, eyes roaming the simple room. It was sparsely furnished, with only a large bed, a bookshelf, and a few other items necessity forced him to keep. Petyr was a man with simple taste, and he liked his home even simpler. Perhaps it was a way to combat the messiness of his work, but whatever it was, he couldn’t stand to keep one of those grotesquely ornate homes common to the King’s Landing elite.

            Petyr smirked. _Someday, perhaps…_ but no, he mustn’t get carried away. “Keeping you?” he asked, faking astonishment. “Miss Stark, you are a guest here. But no, these are my chambers. Yours are on the other side of the bath,” he said, pointing to a door off the right wall. “Forgive me if I prefer to have you close for the moment. Now go on, sweetling, and clean that blood off. We’ll talk in the morning.”

            She glanced at him, and Petyr couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity for the poor creature. Pale, dirtied, and alone, she looked at him through wide blue eyes. _Gods, she’s stunning_ , he thought hungrily.

“And you won’t…”

            “I won’t disturb you,” he finished for her. “There are towels and fresh clothes in your room.”

            Nodding tentatively, Sansa padded over to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. He stood still as the doorknob twisted, then smirked at her almost inaudible sound of dismay when the lock failed to click shut.

            _No, sweetling. I don’t trust you that much._

          

* * *

 

            Sansa studied herself in the mirror. A girl stared back from where she’d wiped away the steam, pale and thin and utterly afraid.

            _This is your fault_ , the girl whispered in her head. Locks of wet, dark hair clung to her skin like seaweed, pulling her back below whatever hell she rose from. She licked her lips and tasted salt.

            Her head throbbed, and her throat burned. Pain stabbed at the soles of her feet each time she stepped. _You caused this. All of it._

            The events of the night flashed before her eyes—Joffrey pulling her into the garage, Father storming in, the crash of glass, a song of screams, and blood, blood, blood. The man who kidnapped her said it was her fault. And maybe it was. _All of them, dead. Because of you._ A sob erupted from her belly, and Sansa steadied herself on the marble counter.

            She didn’t know how long she stood there, didn’t know how long it took for no more tears to come, but eventually Sansa found herself staggering into the room that was to be hers. Through red-rimmed eyes she took in the near-identical bedroom, found the stack of clothes folded neatly on the bed. Hands moved of their own accord, sifting through the pile.

            _It’s all my size_ , she realized as her hand skimmed a tailored leather jacket. Bile rose in her mouth, but she forced it back down with a hard swallow. Jeans and sweaters, jackets and dressed, even a pair of soft cotton shorts and a tank stared back at her, perfectly sized to her tall yet thin frame.

            “He planned for me to be here,” she whispered, holding up a blood-red cocktail dress. “He knew what I did tonight.”

 _I have to get away_ , Sansa thought desperately, dropping the silk and reaching for the pajamas. Hurriedly, she yanked them on and began to pace the length of the room. _Who knows what the hell he wants, but he wants something from me. Not money, but…_ Sansa halted at her own door to the hall, but the knob didn’t even budge. Cursing, Sansa sat on the edge of the bed, raking a hand through her damp hair and willing herself not to break down in tears yet again.

            _What would Mother do? Arya?_ Catelyn Stark had been a fierce, smart woman, surely she could talk her way out, but at the moment Sansa doubted she could even form a legible sentence. _Arya, though…Arya would fight._ Her sister would find a way to escape—she had fled Father’s wrath several times, and could steal a wallet off someone’s person better than anyone she knew…

            A hint of silver flashed in her mind. _He has a key_ , she remembered suddenly, thinking back to the way his hand slid into his pocket. _That’s the way out._

 

* * *

 

            It was hours later when the door creaked open. Petyr kept his eyes shut as she padded back into his room. _Trying to escape already, sweetling? I daresay it’ll be harder than you think._ Still, he pretended to sleep as footsteps crossed the plush carpet, pausing only to be followed by a quiet rustling as she shifted through his discarded clothes.

            _“Shit_ ,” she muttered under her breath, rustling falling silent. He heard a sharp intake of breath, feeling her eyes wander over to his bed through the darkness.

            Closer and closer he felt her presence creep, lemon and vanilla scents from her freshly-washed hair filling his nose. First one finger, then two, found the entrance to his pocket; her breaths grew rapid, frightened, like a rabbit as it watches the blade inch closer. Achingly slow, her fingers slipped downward, brushing against his thigh as they closed around the metal key. A lock of hair suddenly fell forward, brushing his cheek, and her breaths stopped altogether. _And now, sweetling, I show you how things are around here._

Petyr’s hand lashed out, grabbing her wrist. Sansa yelped in surprise as he pulled her roughly downward, causing her to fall clumsily onto the bed. In one swift movement, Petyr had her on her back, trapped beneath him. The key fell to the floor with a soft _thud._

            “Tsk, tsk, sweetling,” he murmured, gazing down at the struggling creature. “Need I remind you of your choices?”

            “Please, please you promised,” she begged as Petyr pinned her wrists above her head, left hand securing them in place. With his right, he let his thumb brush across her pale cheek, let it dip into the sweet hallow at the center of her lips.

            “You’re right,” he agreed, fingers curling around her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I won’t hurt you, and on that you have my word. This is your last reminder. But I think it’s best we don’t wait on our discussion until morning.” He released her wrists, and instantly her body relaxed beneath him. Blue eyes met grey, briefly flickering to his lips. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Stark?”


	3. Three

             A mug slammed down before her, deep red liquid sloshing against the sides. “What is it?” Sansa asked, inhaling the sweet scent. After her failed attempt at escape, the man had told her to follow him back to the first floor. _Not told...commanded._ There was just something about him that warned Sansa not to object—especially not after the way he'd dealt with her last time, pinning her to the bed and pressing a finger to her lips. _It was like I was some sort of toy_ , she had mused as he led her towards what she thought was the kitchen. _A doll to play with...a doll he had been waiting to collect._ The thought had sent a shiver up her spine. Now she sat in his pristine kitchen, eyeing the drink before her. 

            “Why don’t you take a sip and find out?” The man scraped back the chair opposite her, gazing at her beneath the bluish light of the kitchen. When Sansa’s brow furrowed, he added with a low chuckle, “Sweetling, if I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead by now. Take a sip.”

            Despite the warning voice in her head, Sansa wrapped her hands around the warm mug. She eyed the dark drink, just realizing how dry her throat really was. _It’s not like you have anything else to lose_ , the voice countered. _They’re all dead because of you…_

Sansa downed the drink in three gulps. The liquid ran down her throat, hot and spiced and tasting vaguely of the mulled wine Margaery had snuck into winter formal last year.

            The man laughed when she set the empty mug back down. “You are aware that I don’t waste my expensive wines on just any guest, right?”

            She shrugged, wiping her lips. Already she felt the pleasant warmth in her belly, the soft fuzziness she so desperately needed in her head. “Good thing I’m not a guest, then.” She met the man’s eye.

            “Must we really go back to that, Sansa?”

            “Yeah, I really think we should,…”

            “Petyr.”

            _Petyr…now why does that sound so familiar?_ Her eyes flickered over his face—he was far older than she was, perhaps a few years shy of her father’s age. Dark hair gave way to streaks of silver at his temples, seeming to go surprisingly well with his trimmed goatee. This _Petyr_ was the kind of man her friends might have pointed out on the street, giggling as they gushed on about fantasies with older men. Despite herself, Sansa couldn’t help but feel a twinge in her belly—something she never even felt the whole time she was with Joffrey, even before the events of tonight.

            “More wine?”

            His question snapped her from her thoughts, and Sansa nodded. She watched as Petyr padded back over to the stove, his back to her as he ladled the steaming liquid into her mug.

            With the wine back before her, Sansa regarded the man once again. This time, her gaze didn’t stray far from his flint-grey eyes. “How do you know my name?”

            He chuckled. “Everyone in King’s Landing knows the name of Ned Stark’s precious daughter.”

            At her father’s name, Sansa took a quick swallow. The wine felt good as it burned a path down her throat. _Pain. That’s what you need right now._ It was all she could do to stop thinking about what happened. “That doesn’t explain how you knew it was me on the road—how you _knew_ I would be there.”

            “Ah, that.” Petyr leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table, resting his chin atop his interlaced fingers. “I’m afraid secrecy is a scarce thing in this city, sweetling.”

            “That’s how you knew what—what I did? Do you really expect me to believe that word got out so quickly?”

            He shrugged. “Believe what you will. For now, let us just say that I have informants throughout the city. But do not worry, dear. The news will not spread to the media.” Petyr gave her a wry smile. “Of that I am sure.”

            Questions swirled in her mind. How could a man she just met know so much about what was going on? And just judging by what he’d already said, Sansa was sure he knew far more than he was letting on. “I’m guessing you know what went down tonight, then.”

            “Goldcloaks rushed Winterfell once all the guests had left, shooting your father, mother, and eldest brother in the head. All dead, except you.” He said it all monotonously, eyes unblinking. Nothing but coldness seeped from his words.

            A sob stuck in her throat. “ _Why_?” Sansa raised the mug to her lips with shaking hands. Wine slapped dangerously at the brim before disappearing down her throat with a trail of flames.

            “I believe you know why, sweetling.” He tilted his head, regarding her carefully. “The Lannisters don’t kill for no reason. Not usually, that is. So what did Ned and Cat’s precious daughter do to make the proud lions so upset?” Suddenly, he reached across the table, thumb catching the corner of her mouth. He dragged it across, causing Sansa’s breath to hitch. When he pulled away, he held up the finger. _Crimson._

            Her stomach flipped, and Sansa immediately regretted drinking the wine so quickly. “I didn’t mean to, I swear,” Sansa whispered, the words catching in her throat. “But Father was going to take us all away, he said the company had no place working with the Lannisters, that—that _I_ had no place marrying Joffrey. So I told Joffrey about Father’s plan, and then the next thing I know the Goldcloaks come rushing in and…and…” Tears rushed to her eyes, threatening, shuddering, against her lower lashes. “I was so _stupid_ to think any of it mattered, and now…”

            “Now it’s up to you.”

            Sansa looked up, brows pulled together in confusion. “I…I’m sorry, what?” She wiped hurriedly at her cheeks. Still the man— _Petyr_ —stared at her without even a hint of emotion. Sansa didn’t understand how anyone but a monster could just _sit there_ like that.

            “Now it’s up to you,” he repeated slowly. “You are not guiltless, Sansa, but you are not the only one to blame for your parents’ and your brother’s deaths.” He rose from his chair, moving to stand before her. Sansa shifted in her seat to face him, unconsciously pressing herself against the back of the chair as he loomed before her, tall and cold. Suddenly his hand reached out, tracing the tear that streaked down her cheek. Sansa didn’t dare breathe as his fingers dragged lower, pushing back her damp hair, cupping her cheek. His grip was firm, and his boldness sent a round of unease to her stomach. “ _Avenge them_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a short one, but I just wanted to get this quick scene out of the way. I hope you liked it, and I would love to hear your thoughts below!


	4. Four

            Sansa pulled away from his grasp, confusion etched across her face. Reluctantly, he let her go.

            “Avenge them?” she echoed in a faint voice. “I don’t even know who you are, and you expect me to just go along with whatever you have planned?” Her eyes darted around the kitchen, as if searching for whatever hidden threat he kept there. Petyr couldn’t help but chuckle.

            “You need a better reason? Fine. Follow me.” Without waiting for a response, he turned, beginning to make his way down the corridor off the far wall.

            It wasn’t long before footsteps shadowed him once again. “There’s something I want to show you,” he said over his shoulder as they emerged into a room. Petyr flicked on the light, revealing his study. He caught a glimpse of the girl’s face as she took in the wall-to-ceiling shelves, as she breathed in the faint scent of parchment and leather.

            “Are you some kind of collector?” she asked, running a hand across the navy and gold-inlaid spines to her right.

            “You could say that,” he replied casually, watching the way her fingers traced the painted titles. Her thumb passed over _Lives of Four Kings_ with a feather-light touch. _How sweet it would be,_ he thought, _to press her up against those books, to take her with all of history watching on. Ned Stark would roll over in his grave._ It was a dangerous image, though, and Petyr quickly pushed it from his mind. “They came with the house, actually, but I suppose if one is ever at a loss on how to spend a weekend…”

            She shook her head in disbelief, a tiny smile breaking across her lips. “We never had this many books in Winterfell.”

            “Did Cat not keep everything from her teaching days?”

            The smile died on her lips. “Mother sold them when I was born,” she said softly, turning to meet his eyes. “She doesn’t like to talk about those times.” Sansa swallowed thickly and shut her eyes. “ _Didn’t_ ,” she corrected herself, fingers clenching into a fist by her side. “She didn’t.”

            Petyr crossed the short distance between them and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Let me show you something,” he murmured, giving it a reassuring squeeze.  

            He guided her towards the rich cheery-wood desk, gesturing for her to sit in the matching chair. Petyr crouched beside the bottom drawer and punched in the seven-digit code. Inside sat the picture frame, a shadow falling across its surface.

            “Take a look,” Petyr said softly as he drew the frame into the light.

            Sansa’s sky-blue eyes scanned the picture within as she took it from his hands. “You knew her,” she breathed out, fingers turning white as she clutched to the simple silver frame.

            Petyr didn’t even have to look over before he was back in that day.  

            “ _Lysa, just take the damn picture!” he heard her say, laughter tinkling like bells as she clutched to his shoulder. Cat’s body leaned against his, all warmth and softness. Her beauty was no match for the summer sky that reigned above them. The sweetened breeze that whispered through the yard was no match for the scent of her flaming hair. Cat giggled against his ear as he pulled her closer._

_He was fifteen, and already he loved her with all his heart._

           “Catelyn Tully and I grew up together,” he said softly. He could still smell the sweetness of her milk-white skin as her cheek pressed against his own. “We were best friends.”

            She put the picture back down. Now Petyr could see her smiling up at him, lips pink, hair wild. Regret began to creep into his stomach. _Cat will never smile like that again._

            “What happened? She…she never spoke about you.”

            Forcing a tight smile on his lips, Petyr turned his eyes to the daughter. She was every bit as beautiful— _more beautiful, in fact,_ Petyr thought as his eyes drank in her porcelain skin, her mouth pursed softly in question. _The north gave her a beauty even Catelyn could not claim._ It was a coldness he saw in her, a hint that porcelain might one day turn to steel. _And soon it will, with me to guide her._

            “What always happens to young friendships? We grew up. We grew apart. Eventually she married your father, and I moved on.”

            Sansa’s lips curved into a frown. “So you loved her?”

            “I would have been a fool not to. Everyone loved Catelyn Tully.”

            Tears pricked at Sansa’s eyes. “They killed her.” She met his gaze. Tears trembled against her lower lashes. “I want them to pay,” she whispered. “Tell me how. Whatever it is, I’ll do it. I’ll let you help me.”

            Petyr feigned concern. “Are you sure?”

            She nodded, and her fingers found the silver direwolf resting against her chest. “They took everything from me tonight,” Sansa whispered, staring at the metal wolf between her fingers. “What do I have to lose?”

 

* * *

 

 

            It didn’t mean she trusted him. It didn’t mean she would be safe. But it was something, and something was all she had now.

 _I must be crazy…No, of course I’m crazy._ What eighteen-year-old girl would agree to let a grown man help her do something like this?

            Sansa rolled over onto her side, pulling the comforter tight, letting her body’s warmth surround her in the darkness. Petyr’s words swirled in her brain, refusing to leave her be.

            After agreeing to let him help, Petyr had insisted she catch a few hours of sleep before morning. “We have a lot of work to do tomorrow, sweetling,” he had said, pulling her to her feet. “I’m afraid you lost quite a bit of sleep already.” Sansa had tried to protest, tried to get more answers, but the man had insisted, guiding her back upstairs. At first Sansa had hoped she’d be put somewhere _not_ connected to his room, but his firm hand had led her back to the simple chamber from before.

            Now that “work” was all she could think of. What exactly would this man have her doing? Surely she wouldn’t be killing the Lannisters herself—the thought of a gun in her hand made her shiver. It was always Arya and her brothers that did that sort of thing. Sansa had only been to the range once, and even then Robb had had to coax her into trying it. She could still remember the way he looked at her from behind the glass, all red-brown curls and laughter. _And I’ll never see him again._ A fresh wave of pain washed over her.

Every time Sansa tried to imagine what would her life would be like now, her mind dragged her back to memories of home. Arya’s bickering, Mother’s gentle hands, Father’s crushing hugs…even Jon’s half-smiles played over and over in her head, tearing at the hole inside her. She wanted to scream, to cry, to sob, to beat her fists until crimson smeared Petyr’s pristine white walls.

            But she didn’t. She couldn’t. It was that rib-shattering, mind-splitting pain she had to use. It was them she had to avenge. It was her family, it was Winterfell. It was home. And she would cross the Seven Hells to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know everything's been building slowly so far, but hopefully you liked it! Things will start to pick up next chapter. Thanks for reading, and let me know what you thought!


	5. Five

             She woke, head throbbing, to the smell of cinnamon. Groaning, Sansa rolled over in the bed and pried apart her sleep-heavy lashes. For a moment, a wave of confusion washed over as she took in the simple bedroom, the pile of soiled clothes by the wall.

            Then she remembered—the party, the car, the house in the woods, and above all, a man named _Petyr_. And apparently they had work to do.

            Sansa dressed hurriedly, giving her ruined silk dress a forlorn look before choosing a pair of dark wash skinny jeans and a black tank top from the pile by the bed. The curve-hugging pieces were something she’d never be allowed out of the house in before, but now…now there was no one to tell her otherwise. Besides, she wasn’t about to slip on the crimson cocktail gown for breakfast.

After washing her face and yanking a comb through her hair, Sansa glanced at herself in the bathroom mirror.

            “Whatever it takes,” she whispered to the pale girl staring back. Red locks of hair fell in front of her cheeks, and when she swept one behind her ear, she saw a purple bruise blooming on the corner of her jaw. She hadn’t even noticed last night, but then again, she was hardly in a state to care. “Whatever it takes,” she said again, softer this time. The skin was tender beneath her touch.

            As Sansa emerged in the kitchen, her mouth began to water. Petyr stood facing away by the counter, pouring coffee into two glass mugs. A stack of toast sat untouched on the table.

            “Eat. You must be starving.”

            Sansa pulled out a chair and began piling toast onto her plate, eyes never leaving Petyr as he turned back around. A faint smile played on his lips, though he didn’t meet her eyes. Without a word, he set the mug across from her, taking the other to his lips.

            Taking it as a sign to start eating, Sansa took a small bite of the toast. _Cinnamon sugar._ Her eyes closed in bliss as she chewed.

            “That good?”

            Sansa opened her eyes to find him staring at her, smirk wider. She set the piece down. Blood rushed to her cheeks beneath his gaze. “It’s all right.”

            “Oh?” He took another sip of coffee, and Sansa did the same, if only to hide her face. “It was your mother’s favorite when we were kids.”

            Sansa looked at her plate, trying to keep down the fresh wash of pain threating to spill over. _You have to be stronger than that now_ , she told herself. _Be strong for her. For them._ “Aren’t you going to have some?” she blurted out, desperate to change the subject.

            Petyr shrugged and set his mug down. “I don’t usually eat in the mornings, to be honest. Gives me a clearer head.” When he looked over to see Sansa’s nibbled-at toast, he added in a humored tone, “though I don’t suggest you do the same, sweetling. I can’t have you starving on me, now can I?”

            Nodding, Sansa went back to her toast. “What exactly will I be doing, Mr…”

            “Baelish.”

            “Mr. Baelish.” The name was oddly familiar, as if she’d heard it before. “I still don’t understand how you’re going to help me.”

            He regarded her thoughtfully. “When I look at you, Sansa, I see a scared little girl. The waist-length hair, the pale face, the hunched shoulders,” he gave her a pointed look, and Sansa found herself straightening in her seat. “A scared little girl is a poor thing to be in this city.”

            “I’m eighteen, Mr. Ba—”

            “Petyr,” he said, cutting her off. “Then tell me, what’s an eighteen year-old girl going to do against the Lannisters? Do you think they’ll be frightened by some school girl playing at their game? Sansa Stark is nothing to them.”

            Her brows pulled together in confusion. “Who do you want me to be, then? I can’t just change who I am.”

            The corner of his lips lifted into a half-smirk. “That, sweetling, is where we begin.” Suddenly he pushed back his chair and stood. Without a look back at her, he began walking towards the front door. Sansa had no choice but to follow, leaving her half-eaten toast behind to grow cold.

            “Now, I have some work to do today, and I won’t be going with you,” he said over his shoulder.

            “Going with me where?” she asked, hurrying to catch up with his long stride. “Where are we going?”

            “The mall.”

            “The mall?”

            He stopped before the door and turned to her. “Yes. I need you to pick up a few things.” Petyr pulled open the door, eyes still glued on hers. “Think you can do that without getting yourself killed?”

            Sansa’s eyes widened—that wasn’t an option, was it? “I—is that very likely?”

            Petyr chuckled. “For people like us?” Then his gaze softened, and he reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on the bruise before dropping away. “Always.”

            He turned sharply around to head towards the car parked at the end of the drive. _Always_ , he had said as he brushed a soothing touch across her cheek. A tingling sensation remained, and Sansa bit her lip, trying to make her body focus on something else. _For people like us…what does that even mean? We’re nothing alike,_ Sansa thought as she hurried to catch up. Petyr stood by the passenger door, waiting with an emotionless expression.

            “Thanks,” Sansa muttered as she slid inside, his words still replaying in her mind.

            They drove in silence, and oddly enough, Sansa found herself almost at peace in the luxurious car. Just yesterday she’d been in a panic, trapped in the dark leather seat with her heart beating out of her chest. But now…now it was secure, comforting. For some reason, some stupid, foolish reason, she even felt safe beside the same man who’d kidnapped her. Maybe it was because of his tie to her mother, or the way he’d promised to avenge her family. Maybe it was just easier to trust anyone but herself. Or maybe she was just tired. Tired of it all.

             Sansa rolled down the window and took a deep breath. The world flashed by in a haze of grey and brown, and a faint scent of mint inhabited every corner of the car. Slowly, the dense wood faded to brick and steel and stone as they drove into the city. People speckled the window for seconds before disappearing once more into their easy, happy lives. _I was one of them_ , Sansa thought as a young couple zipped out of view. _Stupid enough to believe in happiness._

            “Here we are,” Petyr said as they pulled up beside the sprawling complex. Shoppers darted this way and that, and suddenly Sansa felt sick to her stomach.

            “I don’t think I can do this, Mr—”

            “Petyr.” He impatiently tapped the steering wheel. “And yes you can. Don’t tell me a girl like you hasn’t been to a shopping mall before. Not even Ned Stark would deny his children that,” he added with a slight smirk before reaching over to the glove compartment. His arm brushed her knees as he pulled out two objects. “A burner,” he said, handing over the first, “And some cash.” Petyr put a small leather wallet in her hand.

            Sansa thumbed through the bills, eyes growing wide. “Petyr, I can’t take this,” she said, looking up at him. “Five thousand? What do you even need me to pick up?”

            “That, sweetling,” he said, leaning over even farther to open her door, “is all on the phone. Now if you don’t mind, I really do have better places to be than the parking lot of a shopping mall.”

            Still confused and even more nervous than before, Sansa hesitantly stepped out of the car. “And if something goes wrong?” she asked as the window began to shut.

            With a tilt of his head, Petyr gestured at her hand, gave a quick, wry smile, and pulled away from the sidewalk without so much as a glance back.

            Sansa frowned as the car disappeared behind a garage. “Great,” she muttered, staring at the sea of happy people flooding into the mall. “I’ve got five thousand dollars and a burner.” She flipped open the phone and found the text message Petyr spoke of. Her frowned deepened as she read.

_What could go wrong with that?_

* * *

 

 

            He didn’t even need to go inside to know that the bodies remained. The whole estate smelled like death. _Hell will be dealt for such stupidity_ , he thought angrily. He’d need to have a firm talk with the Lannisters about being so careless. It would take just one snooping, bumbling neighbor and the whole story would be leaked to the press. For now, Petyr pulled out his cell and typed out a quick message.

_[Sent]    11:06_

_Winterfell. Clean it up before sundown._

            Stones crunched beneath his boots as Petyr approached the house. _The great seat of the Starks,_ he thought mockingly, placing his fingers on the front door. _The most noble family in the north._ It swung open without protest.

            Immediately the stench hit him, and Petyr had to yank up his shirt to cover his nose and mouth. The place was trashed—spilled beer, knocked-over cups, glittering glass strewn out across the marble tiles. As Petyr moved towards the living room, a new scent filled his nose. _Smoke._ He peered in to see the blackened furniture and walls. _So the Lannisters got carried away. How typical._

            Death lead him into the parlor, and death certainly did not disappoint. Three bodies lay on the now reddish-brown carpet, bullet holes and all. Their eyes had not been closed. As Petyr stepped closer, anger boiled up inside. He could now see the crimson smiles on Cat and the boy’s throat, grinning proudly up at their killers. He almost reached down, almost brushed away a strand of blood-caked hair from Cat’s cheek. _I can’t_ , he told himself, hand freezing above her pale face. _I have to remember what happened to her, what I d—_

            His pocket vibrated. Petyr quickly straightened, eyes looking anywhere but the woman by his feet. He glanced at the number. “Forty minutes and she’s already calling,” he muttered, pressing the red circle and shoving the phone back in his pocket. “We’ll have to work on that.”

            With that dealt with, Petyr moved on to what he actually came for. It took only a few tries before he found the girl’s room—a child’s bedroom turned teen’s was unmistakable. Pale pink walls framed the white-and-lace décor, and even an old stuffed rabbit, grey and fading, sat half-hidden behind her floral pillows. Petyr couldn’t help but smile, imaging Sansa growing up in this very room. His fingers brushed the cliché quotes stuck onto the mirror, travelled over the soft throw blanket folded neatly on the bed.

            Petyr pulled open the dresser’s drawer, rifling through the t-shirts and socks. The next held her underwear and bras, and Petyr smirked as he fingered through the mix of lace and cotton, training bras and push-ups. He found it fascinating, to see the effects of adolescence right here in a drawer.

            After coming up empty, Petyr moved on to the wardrobe. _Ah ha._ Hanging neatly inside were the sweaters and button-downs, the plaid skirts and the grey stockings. Petyr quickly began pulling everything that resembled a school uniform off the hangers and shoving them in his duffle bag. Just as he placed the last pair of rolled-up stockings inside, his pocket gave another buzz.

 _Again?_ Petyr checked the number to be sure. _Sansa. Again._ He frowned, thumb hovering above the green circle. _She could be in trouble…_ The image of Cat, bleeding out in the parlor, flooded his mind. Lessons could begin later.

            “What is it?” he asked, rummaging through the remaining clothes to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything important. _I can’t have her going to school in just stockings, now can I…_

            “What?” he said sharply, straightening. Sansa’s voice, scared and small, flew at him from the other end of the line. Finally she took a breath, but by then Petyr was already halfway down the stairs.

            “Ok, just stay where you are and don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be there soon.” He shoved the phone back in his pocket, making a beeline for the door.

            He froze.

            Petyr stepped back a few paces, gazing into the parlor. His throat constricted, but before he could tell himself not, Petyr went inside and knelt by Cat.

            “I’m sorry,” he breathed out, smoothing the matted hair by her forehead. His fingers trembled, brushing across her cold, lifeless skin. “I am so sorry.”

            Petyr closed her eyes, stood, and went on his way.


End file.
